Zalmay Azad
Paris is not just a city. Paris is a feeling that settles quietly in your heart when you walk its streets. It is the soft order of things, the calm rhythm of daily life, the invisible discipline that makes beauty last. Paris looks the way it does not by accident, not by magic, and not only because it is old or famous. Paris is Paris because Parisians put their hearts into it—every single day.
I was discussing this with a friend while walking through the city. We were not talking about grand monuments or museums. We were talking about clean pavements, trimmed trees, working streetlights, organized traffic, and public spaces that feel respected. I told him that the reason Paris is clean, organized, and developed is simple but heavy: the people here pay the price for it. They work hard, honestly, and consistently. Development is not free. Cleanliness is not free. Order is not free. Paris has chosen to pay that price.
Here, I saw laborers sweeping streets early in the morning with seriousness in their eyes. Gardeners trimming plants as if those plants were part of their own homes. Security guards standing alert, not bored. Storekeepers opening shops with pride. Waiters in cafés serving customers with attention and dignity, even when tired. No one acts as if their job is beneath them. No one says, “This is not my responsibility.” Every role matters, and everyone seems to understand that the city depends on them.
Paris does not survive on speeches. It survives on duty.
The Parisian does not wait for someone else to fix things. He does not look for shortcuts or excuses. He knows that if he cheats, neglects, or becomes careless, the system weakens—and eventually, the city suffers. So he works, pays taxes, follows rules, complains when necessary, but mostly does his part quietly. This collective honesty is what keeps Paris standing tall, clean, and alive.
Now compare this with Pakistan.
In Pakistan, almost everyone wants the country to look like the developed world. We want clean roads, functioning parks, efficient services, honest institutions. We complain loudly about corruption, inefficiency, and decay. But when it comes to duty, we disappear. We look for excuses. We blame the system, the government, fate, or history—anything except ourselves.
The bitter truth is that Pakistani society, as a whole, is deeply corrupt. Not only at the top, but at every level. And what is worse is that many people want the country to remain the way it is, because change would require them to change themselves. And that is the hardest thing of all.
Here in Paris, I saw dignity in labor. In Pakistan, labor is often treated as punishment. Here, work is responsibility. There, work is something to avoid if possible. Here, rules are followed because they make life better. There, rules are broken because breaking them feels clever.
Let me offer a blunt and painful example from Islamabad—one that requires no theory, only honesty.
The PIA flight I took from Islamabad to Paris was not a journey; it was chaos in the air. Passengers roamed the aisles as if the aircraft were their private farmland. Groups gathered in areas reserved for the cabin crew, laughing and chatting, blocking movement, ignoring every basic rule of safety and discipline. At one point, a passenger was caught smoking inside the aircraft toilet—a violation so serious that in any functioning system it would invite immediate consequences.
This kind of behavior is not born out of ignorance; it is born out of certainty that nothing will happen. The same passengers would never dare pull these stunts on Emirates, Qatar Airways, Air France, or any other serious international airline. There, they know rules are enforced, fines are real, flights are delayed for offenders, and bans are permanent. Abroad, fear of consequences produces instant discipline. On PIA, the absence of accountability turns adults into lawless children, confident that misconduct will be tolerated, excused, or quietly ignored.
Three conclusions were impossible to avoid. First, it is a mercy that PIA has been privatized. Second, the patience of the PIA staff—who endured this spectacle with restraint and dignity—was taller than the Himalayas themselves. And third, the behavior of the passengers, especially on a flight headed to Europe, crossed the boundaries of civilized conduct. What I witnessed was not cultural difference or ignorance; it was contempt for rules. Frankly, even animals respect boundaries better than what was on display in that cabin.
This disorder in the sky reflects the disorder on the ground.
For the past eighteen years, I have walked daily in F-9 Park, one of Islamabad’s largest public parks. On paper, dozens of gardeners are employed there. Salaries are paid. Funds are allocated. In reality, duty is absent. Trees are neglected, plants dry up, grass grows wild and uneven, and maintenance appears accidental rather than planned. The park survives not because people care for it, but because nature is more forgiving than our institutions.
Now look at the park in front of the building where I live. For three consecutive years, CDA employees have arrived, dug holes for plantation, and left—without planting a single tree. Just holes. Abandoned, open, mocking the very idea of public service. I complained repeatedly. I followed official procedures. I contacted the authorities responsible. Nothing happened. Those empty pits remain, not as mistakes, but as permanent evidence of institutional laziness.
The same story repeats across Islamabad. CDA workers assigned to clean roads lean on their tools instead of using them. Streetlights remain broken for months, sometimes years. Complaints vanish into files that never move unless pushed by influence or personal connections. And when questioned, the response is always rehearsed: no funds, no orders, no staff, and no authority.
This is not a failure of resources. It is a failure of character.
But the truth is simpler and uglier. We do not do our duty.
We want a clean country without cleaning. We want order without discipline. We want honesty without being honest. We want development without sacrifice. We want Paris without becoming Parisians in spirit.
In Paris, the laborer understands that his broom matters. The gardener knows that his plants shape the city’s soul. The waiter realizes that his service reflects his country. In Pakistan, many believe that their individual effort means nothing. That mindset kills nations.
A country is not corrupt because of a few politicians alone. A country becomes corrupt when dishonesty becomes normal, when negligence is accepted, when excuses replace responsibility. When people take salaries without working, when authority is seen as entitlement rather than trust, decay becomes inevitable.
Paris teaches a quiet lesson. It does not shout. It does not lecture. It simply shows what happens when people care. When duty is taken seriously. When work is done with honesty. When systems are respected because people respect themselves.
If Pakistan truly wants to develop, the answer is not in slogans, foreign loans, or imported models. The answer is painfully close to home. Pakistanis will have to change themselves. They will have to do the job they are paid to do. They will have to stop waiting for miracles and start accepting responsibility.
Development begins when a gardener waters plants properly. When a cleaner cleans sincerely. When an officer answers complaints honestly. When a citizen follows rules even when no one is watching.
Paris is Paris because its people chose responsibility over excuses.
If Pakistan wants to become Pakistan at its best, it must make the same choice.
The author is an Islamabad -based journalist